


Batter Up!

by Shadow_sensei



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Cake Making, Fluff, M/M, Victor's Birthday, Yuuri's birthday, a mess in the Katsuki Nikiforov household, birthday fic, cake baking contest, cake wars basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 20:50:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10670514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_sensei/pseuds/Shadow_sensei
Summary: Victor and Yuuri are celebrating their birthdays together and decide to bake their own cakes, competing against each other to see which of their cakes will be the one to win over the party. Neither have baked a cake in years.





	Batter Up!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Haileycl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haileycl/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy this little oneshot!

_Friday, December 5th. 4:00 pm._

“Oh, shit.”

“Is that an egg on the floor, Victor?” calls Yuuri from the other side of the kitchen, his back towards him.

“No,” mutters Victor, as he tries to scoop up the egg with a paper towel. “Um, don’t turn around.”

“I can’t anyway, remember?”

“Oh yeah.” The egg yolk bursts under his touch, and Victor winces. This is turning out to be even more of a mess than he had expected.

It’s been half an hour since they’ve started this contest, thinks Victor, and his chocolate cake batter is still just a flour mixture and half an egg. Victor didn’t even know you could crack an egg so hard that only part of it would go into the bowl, and the other half would, well, fall out. It’s Makkachin’s fault for scaring him by barking so loudly, anyway. He hopes it doesn’t matter if there’s an extra half egg in the cake.

Victor can’t remember the last time he’s made a cake from scratch. He must have been ten or something. He can’t exactly remember how it turned out. Wait, maybe he can; maybe it was that one cake he had that—

No, definitely not. His stomach churns a bit. He really hopes not.

“Yuuri, was this a stupid idea?”

“What, having a cake baking contest or having a combined birthday party? Or both?”

“I mean…”

“It was your idea.”

“We’re making our own cakes. For our own birthdays.”

“Wasn’t that, like, the point?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Is your cake going okay, Victor?”

“It’s going fine,” replies Victor, his voice slightly more high-pitched than usual. He clears his throat and coughs lightly. “Sorry, that was the, um. The flour.”

Yuuri snorts, and Victor flushes, fumbling with the measuring cups. He turns on the mixer that he borrowed from Yakov. It doesn’t work.

“I hate Yakov’s mixer,” he announces.

“It’s the same as ours, sweetheart. Just a different color.”

Victor taps on it, removes the paddle attachment, glares at it. “Well, ours _works_.”

“Is it plugged in, Vitya?”

Victor glances over to the end of the cord, which, although hidden behind the microwave, is not, in fact, plugged in.  
“This is why I love you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri laughs. Victor’s finding it increasingly difficult to not turn around and hug him from behind, but rules are rules, and the rules state that neither of them is allowed to look at the other’s half of the kitchen, because that would include looking at the other person’s cake, and that would be cheating. Victor doesn’t even know what kind of cake Yuuri’s making. It smells a bit like apples. That sounds good. It sounds better than his own creation, at least.

At least his ingredients are in.

He turns on the mixer again, and the ingredients go flying. He stares down at his chocolate spattered apron, grimacing. He knew he shouldn’t have put in everything at once. Why didn’t that recipe warn him? Why didn’t it say—

Victor checks again, and it did warn him, but it’s hidden in the middle of one of the paragraphs of one of the steps, and honestly no one would have seen it. He leaves a tense comment at the bottom of the recipe to let the blogger know that she has to put that one sentence in a much bigger font, bolded, underlined, italicized, for amateur bakers and professionals like Victor alike.

On the plus side, he’s pretty sure that the extra half egg is out now.

He pours the batter into a large square cake pan, and sticks it in the top oven. He runs his hands under the tap to rinse them off, then dries them, claps them together.  
Time to get started on the topping.

_4:30 pm._

On the other side of the kitchen, Yuuri is panicking. He tries not to let it show. He tries not to make any panicky noises, because after all, this is a contest, and it will not do to demonstrate any signs of weakness.

Alright, his apples are soaking nicely in the cinnamon and sugar mix in one of the bowls, and his batter looks like it’s sitting peacefully in the mixer bowl, but his hands are covered in vegetable oil and _his ring is not on his finger._

Somehow, over the course of the mixing and the pouring in of the vegetable oil, he had managed to spill oil all over his right forearm, which really wasn’t his fault. Well, maybe it was; he was getting a bit distracted. But still. He stares down at his hands, frowning, because it isn’t really the oil itself that’s bothering him but the missing presence of his ring in this situation.

He gets halfway to putting his face in his hands out of despair, but this gets oil all over his chin and one of his cheeks, and he would slap himself if this didn’t mean that his face wouldn’t come out looking like cheap fast food. Yuuri’s fairly sure that his ring fell off and slipped right into the batter, but the problem is, he can’t see where it went.

He knows that sometimes, people hide little objects in cakes for their significant others to find and coo over in joy and surprise, but he and Victor are engaged. Yuuri doesn’t need to surprise him this way. He doesn’t need to bake a cake with possibly hazardous shards of gold inside of it. He needs to find the ring.

Yuuri takes a large spatula and begins poking around, hoping to find something hard.

The first thing he finds is an eggshell.

What a poor cake batter.

After about two minutes of poking and folding the batter, he finds the ring at last, a solid lump in the sticky mix. He breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

“Everything alright?” calls Victor, sounding oddly cheery.

“A-okay,” mutters Yuuri.

“Good!”

“I’m gonna win this, Victor.”

“Oh yeah? You underestimate me and my cake. It’s the quad flip of all cakes.”

“Well, mine’s the quad axel of all cakes,” states Yuuri, with what he hopes sounds like confidence. “Rarely attempted because of its overpowering, um, greatness.”

“You’ve never landed a quad axel, Yuuri. I’ve never landed a quad axel.”

“It’s a _metaphor_.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Yuuri sighs, staring down at his batter. It’ll be alright, hopefully. He turns on the mixer again.

_5:00 pm._

Victor takes out his cake. It looks decent. He’s proud of it. He smiles down at it. It will be glorious. He begins poking holes in it to fill it in with the caramel and condensed milk topping.

He pours the topping over it, and it looks delightful. His stomach sings. He can’t wait to taste it. He can’t wait for Yuuri to taste it and be completely overwhelmed by how good it tastes, how amazing it is. _Just_ _as_ _delicious_ _as_ _you_ , Yuuri will say, and he will gush at him and hug him, and they will kiss over the countertop, tasting the sweetness of each other’s cakes on their tongues, getting flour and sugar on their shirts and on their aprons, but it won’t matter because those garments will be off in no time, caramel and syrup in their caresses, Victor licking chocolate off of Yuuri’s—

“Victor.”

“Hmm?” says Victor, dazedly.

“I said, can you close your eyes as I take my cake out of the oven?”

“Oh. Oh, sure.” Victor closes his eyes and lets his mind run a bit wild until Yuuri tells him it’s okay to open them again.

He loves cake.

_5:30 pm._

  
Yuuri whispers a long string of curses. His cake has collapsed in the middle, and he’s placed it in the oven again, but it won’t fix itself. Great. The center isn’t cooking, and he’s burned the sides from having stuck it back in the heat for too long, but the middle is still a bit liquid. Yuuri doesn’t know if he wants Victor’s cake to be so absolutely terrible that he wins by default, or if he wants Victor’s cake to actually be good so that they actually have cake to eat.

At least his ring’s clean and back on his finger.

_  
5:45 pm._

Yakov claps his hands twice, the sound echoing around the rink.

“Alright, practice over. Good job today, but Mila, you have to work on your triple axel triple toe. Especially the landings. It’s getting there, but we’ll work more tomorrow.”

“Aw, Coach, I thought I was doing pretty well.”

“Yuri, your leg’s too loose in the quad axel, but overall it’s pretty good.”

Yuri Plisetsky mutters incoherently in response, then gurgles his drink loudly. Yakov ignores him.

“Georgi, your step sequence is greatly improving, but if you don’t get your mind off of Alicia—”

“Andrea,” pipes Mila. “Alicia was the one before.”

Georgi lets out a loud sob.

Yakov sighs. “Whatever. Just try not to get so distracted and you might actually land your jumps next time. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

“Bye, Coach.”

“Bye, Yakov.”

Georgi blows his nose. “I don’t know if I’ll be up for skating tomo—”

“You will practice tomorrow, Georgi,” Yakov orders sternly. Georgi stands up straighter and puts down the tissue.

“I’ll see you—” he sniffles—“tomorrow, then.”

“Good.”

Yakov leaves, and Mila turns toward the other skaters, hands on her hips. “So! Are we all heading to Victor and Yuuri’s party?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” grunts Yuri, taking a large gulp from his bottle.

“I heard they’re having a cake-making contest,” exclaims Mila.

Yuri nearly chokes on his Gatorade. “They’re _what_?”

“Having a cake-making contest. We’ll get two cakes!”

“No. No, Mila, you don’t understand,” says Yuri, his voice hushed, panicked. _“Victor can’t bake.”_

“Well, I’m sure he can at least—”

“He tried to make muffins at Yakov’s house once, Mila. He put salt instead of sugar. They came out as hard as bricks and absolutely disgusting. You could barely bite into one.”

Mila snorts. “You know what they say; you learn from your mistakes.”

“Salt, Mila. Muffins literally made of salt.”

“Well, can Yuuri bake?” she asks.

“I… don’t know. I’ve never seen him bake before. I wouldn’t count on it.”

“Well, maybe he can, Yuri, you may be just underestimating—”

“Okay, maybe he can, but maybe he can’t, you know?”

“You think we should go get a cake for them?”

“Yes.”

Mila laughs. “Alright. Georgi!”

“What?” responds Georgi, sounding mildly annoyed.

“Stop moping for tonight! We’re getting a cake!”

 

_6:30 pm._

“Fuck,” curses Yuri, with feeling.

“What is it?” asks Mila, looking over his shoulder.

“They’re out of cake.”

“They can’t just be out of cake, Yuri. That’s impossible—Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mila and Yuri check up and down all the aisles, in the fridges, in the freezers, as crackling, top 40 pop irregularly flows out of the ceiling’s speakers, to Yuri’s disgust. They don’t even find the smallest ice cream cake.

“What kind of a shitty disgrace of a corner store—”

“Language, Yuri,” sighs Mila, a twinge of discouragement in her voice.

“Oooh, who likes berry pie?” calls Georgi from the other end of the aisle. Mila and Yuri glance at each other, nod. It’s better than nothing.

They buy three.

 

 _7:15 pm_.

“So!” exclaims Phichit, clasping his hands together. “Let’s see the cakes!”

“Oh, yes,” agrees Christophe, smiling widely.

Victor smiles confidently, then looks toward Yuuri, whose mouth is twisted in an expression he can’t exactly place. This is a good sign for him. He has high hopes for his cake. It will be better than anything they’ve ever tasted, bar none. Yuuri looks mildly pained.

“Shall we bring them out, Yuuri?”

Yuuri nods, his expression unchanging. They head into the kitchen, and both take their platters, the cakes hidden under dishtowels that they’ve draped over the glass domes that cover them.

“Who’s going first?” calls Georgi, who is holding a large paper bag with the label of a nearby grocery store. Victor wonders if there’s another gift in there.

“Yuuri’s going first!” answers Victor. He’ll save the best for last, and blow them all away.

“Oh,” says Yuuri. He isn’t looking anyone in the eye. Victor hopes that this isn’t some sort of intricate ploy to make him believe that his own cake is better, only for Yuuri to surprise everyone with a masterpiece. Victor holds his breath.

At the count of three, Yuuri pulls off the towel and the dome, and Victor stares at Yuuri’s cake for a few stunned moments before snorting loudly and bursting into laughter.

Yuuri glares at him, one hand still resting protectively on his platter, on which is sitting an object that looks a bit like a deflated brown balloon.

“Stop laughing,” says Yuuri sternly. From the other side of the table, Yuri Plisetsky cackles.

Victor catches Mila whispering something to Yuri with a stunned and amused look on her face.

“Well, I’m sure it tastes good!” exclaims Phichit brightly.

“It’s supposed to be an apple cake,” says Yuuri, glaring at it.

“Well, I can see the apples,” proclaims Chris, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So can I,” says Georgi.

Victor hands Yuuri a knife, and Yuuri begrudgingly takes it, cuts a piece of his cake. Yuri Plisetsky is immediately at Yuuri’s side, a cocky grin spilling out from between his lips.

“Looks a bit raw, _katsudon_.”

“I know,” moans Yuuri, his head in his hands. Phichit rubs his back sympathetically, and Victor kisses his cheek. In his mind, although he feels sorry for Yuuri, Victor smiles, because at this point, he knows he’ll win. Despite their engagement and the medals that both of them have won, he hasn’t lost his competitive spark. He knows Yuuri hasn’t either, and for all of his wonderful qualities, he’s a bit of a sore loser. They both are, if he’s being honest with himself.

Victor reveals his cake next, and it’s quite lovely, if he does say so himself, topped with chopped hazelnuts and not too sunken in any places. He’s never made one of these before, so he doesn’t know exactly how it’s supposed to look, but he hopes it’s alright.

Yuuri squeezes his shoulder and tells him it looks nice, and Victor shines, kissing him hard on the mouth.

Yuri Plisetsky, who Victor suspects is only here for the cake, cuts himself a piece and inspects it with a raised eyebrow.

“Pass your judgment, Yurio?” asks Victor.

“It looks better than Yuuri’s,” starts Yuri before starting to poke at it with his fork. “But it still looks a bit weird.”

Victor watches confidently as Yuri takes the first bite, chews for about two seconds, then immediately makes a sour face and swallows with a grimace.

 _“Why is it so damn sweet?!_ ”

Victor furrows his brow. “I didn’t do anything to it.” Yuri is probably kidding. He does that; it’s a teenager thing.

Victor leans over to taste it himself. He immediately squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to swallow down the piece of what seems like solid sugar, nightmarishly sweet, the horrendously overwhelming flavor almost burning his tongue in its intensity.

“What the fuck,” he says. He can sense Yuuri watching him intently, sees Yuri wiping his tongue with a napkin out of the corner of his eye.

He runs into the kitchen, searching for what might have been the source of the problem, and finds nothing. All he finds is the bag of flour he used, and—

 _Wait_.

He takes out the bag of flour, sticks a finger in, tastes it, and groans loudly.

“Vitya?” calls Yuuri from the dining room. “Is everything okay?”

Victor takes a deep breath and heads back out, still holding the not-flour in his hand. Christophe looks at him with an amused gaze, then glances down at the bag he’s holding.

“That’s not flour, Victor,” says Yuuri, a mixture of horror and laughter lining his voice. “That’s--”

“Powdered sugar,” finishes Victor. “I know.”

“What kind of cake was it supposed to be, sweetheart?”

Victor flushes brightly, looking sheepishly at Yuuri.

“It was supposed to be a…” he trails off.

“A what?” asks Yuri Plisetsky, smirking.

“A _better than sex_ cake,” Victor mumbles, but he suspects that everyone can hear him, knows everyone has heard him judging by the explosion of laughter that fills the room, and it’s all mildly humiliating.

Yuuri is the only one not laughing, although a playful grin dances across his features, and Victor is almost scared to hear what he’ll say.

“Vitya,” starts Yuuri, softly. “I hope you think our sex is better than this.”

Victor, affronted, widens his eyes. “Of course I do! This could never—”

“You’re yelling, Victor,” laughs Yuuri.

Behind them, Yuri gags loudly. Victor blushes.

“Maybe later, Victor,” says Yuuri, biting his lip, and Victor nearly swoons.

Yuri Plisetsky pulls a face, but Mila nudges his shoulder, and he rolls his eyes.  
“Whatever, guys, it doesn’t matter,” he drawls. “Does anyone want pie?”

After a single bite, they unanimously decide that the convenience store pies ultimately are the winners of the cake contest.

  
_11:00 pm_.

Everyone has left, and there are plates in the sink and the smell of berries saturating the air, but Yuuri smiles gently and takes Victor’s hand.

No words are exchanged as Victor is pushed against the bedroom door, Yuuri nipping softly at his earlobe, at the skin of his neck, unbuttoning his shirt with confident, unwavering fingers, as Victor’s breath hitches and his heartbeat picks up the pace.

Victor can taste the sweetness in Yuuri’s breath, just as he fantasized, better than any dream or birthday gift, as Yuuri kisses his forehead, his nose, his lips, with a mouth that’s as insisting as it is delicate, and Yuuri’s words echo even as they’re whispered in the room filled only with Victor’s staggered breaths.

“Tonight,” Yuuri murmurs, “I’ll give you what no cake could ever surpass.”


End file.
